


attention interest desire action

by LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Cas has tattoos, Dean Being Dean, Dean Has Realizations, Dean/Cas Pinefest, Dean/Cas Pinefest 2018, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Minor Bela Talbot/Dean Winchester, Morning Sex, Phone Sex, Pining Dean Winchester, Punk Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 15:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13906719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch/pseuds/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch
Summary: When Dean Winchester quits his job as head of marketing at Sandover, his life turns on its axis. His new job is nothing like his last: As the first communications manager for the small town of Milford, he’s confronted not only with new tasks, but a whole new set of work ethics that make him question what kind of person he was and who he wants to be.The biggest challenge yet might be working with the obnoxious Castiel Novak. Cas gets under his skin and grinds Dean’s nerves raw, so much so that Dean doesn’t even realize how he’s slowly but inevitably falling for him.Written for the Dean/Cas Pinefest 2018. Art byexceptcas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my entry for the Dean/Cas Pinefest 2018. I had so much fun writing it, I hope you'll enjoy reading. 
> 
> The wonderful [exceptcas](https://exceptcas.tumblr.com) created amazing art for this. [Check it out!](https://exceptcas.tumblr.com/post/171692463243/heres-the-art-for-procasdeanating-s-awesome)
> 
> A big and heartfelt thank-you to my awesome betas [ Marie](http://dixseptdixhuit.tumblr.com) and [helakkas](http://helakkas.tumblr.com) for your encouragement and advice <3<3<3, to the mods for all the love and hard work they put into this challenge, and to all the other writers who filled my to-read-list with their stories for weeks to come.

„Well then, Mr. Winchester. Do you have any more questions?“ 

Dean smiles at the woman sitting opposite from him, behind a desk that might have been around when the brick town house was built in 1832. Just like everything else in the office of his new boss, it exudes an air of defiant old-fashioned-ness. A wooden cabinet that dates back to the same era as the desk is standing beside a metal drawer that must have been white in the eighties and has since dimmed to a greyish-yellow.  _ They might even still have suspended files in those things _ , Dean thinks, and the fond smile transforms into a grin. 

“No, thank you, Mrs. Moseley. I can’t think of anything yet.”

She stands, quite a few inches shorter than Dean but impressive all the same, and offers her hand for a tight warm shake. “We’re happy to have you. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

“Thank you,” he says again. He doesn’t share her confidence, but this is not the place to mention his doubts. He takes the huge bundle of papers from the desk, clutches them tight to his chest so nothing will slip out, and leaves. He feels like the new kid on the first day of school, and come to think of it, the building even smells a bit like school. Dust and industrial cleaner, the body odor of too many people, books and papers. The tight feeling between his shoulders is nervousness. 

His new office waits just down the hall, the fourth room to the right. The door stands open when he gets there, and he finds a man with a baseball cap pushing an ancient table over the linoleum with a sound that reminds Dean of fighting cats. Dean hurries to put the papers on his desk and lend the man a hand, if only to make the noise stop. Together they arrange the monstrosity in the middle of the available space left to Dean’s new desk and carry four chairs from the hallway in as well. 

The man takes off his cap and wipes a few drops of sweat from his forehead before he reaches out with the free hand. “Bobby Singer, maintenance.”

The gruff voice carries a hint of curiosity, and sharp eyes under bushy eyebrows wander over Dean while they shake hands. Dean has the distinct feeling that Singer observes, analyses, and makes up his mind about him in the split seconds their palms meet. For some absurd reason he hopes the verdict is in his favor. He makes sure his grip is tight and strong. 

“Dean Winchester, PR and marketing.” He deepens his voice involuntary to match Singer’s and straightens his spine. The introduction earns him a huffing laugh nonetheless. 

“Yeah, I heard.” Singer shakes his head and runs a palm over his beard before he puts his cap back on. “Pretty sure we don’t need no marketing. Seeing that most people don’t have much of a choice other than dealing with us.”

Dean flinches and Singer sees it. There’s not much he doesn’t see, Dean supposes. Singer carries on. “But I didn’t like those computers either and seems like they turned out to be useful after all, so I guess I’ll wait and see, huh?” His eyes are glinting, and Dean can’t help a relieved laugh. 

“Yeah, we’ll see.” 

Singer leaves and Dean’s finally alone in his new office. The interior is a wild mix of practical furniture from the last century. His brother would call it eclectic, but only because he doesn’t have the slightest eye for design. The room is way smaller than Dean’s last office but the old wooden windows open to a beautiful vista over the park and the walls are freshly painted in a friendly off-white, so it doesn’t feel stifling at all. 

Dean sits down on the swivel chair with an obnoxious green upholstery and takes a deep breath. It’s been a month since he left Sandover, carrying a cardboard box that contained a framed picture of his mom and a sickly looking plant, with Zachariah’s words still echoing through his head. 

_ “You’re done, Winchester. No company in this town will hire you, I’ll take care of that.” _

His late boss had been right. Every call Dean had made ended in uncomfortable silence. He seldom made it past the first line of human resources. He had been debating leaving Cincinnati, leaving the state and start over somewhere, when his mom had, haltingly, told him about the plans of the city council of his hometown to take a leap into the 21st century and hire someone in his exotic field. That’s how he ended here – the first communications manager for Milford, Ohio. 

_ Boost tourism, draw new citizens and firms to the area, improve press relations, communicate political decisions _ , the ad had said – Dean’s new job would cover a range of topics that would have been in the hands of at least a dozen specialists in an international company like Sandover. Now there’s only me, he thinks, and the thought doesn’t fill him with dread but with excitement. Like the first settlers, greeted by a wild and empty land, only that his West will smell of paper and disinfectant, and his harvest would be a few likes on Facebook and a 2-percent raise in the polls. 

A knock interrupts his musings. A mop of dark hair appears between the open door and the frame before the figure straightens into the form of a man in his thirties. Dean blinks. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Being at a loss for words isn’t something he experiences often, but right now he can’t do much more than stare. His guest stands still as if he’s used to that reaction, and Dean can see why. 

Thick thighs are clad in tight black pants that vanish in black boots as if the last 15 years of fashion didn’t happen and emo never went out of style. The black muscle shirt does nothing to hide the generous ink that flows over a toned upper body, as if someone spilled it over the slightly tanned skin. The dark hair is tousled, not in the artificial way that smells of expensive styling products but in that  _ other _ way that makes you wonder if that person just got laid. When Dean’s eyes finish their exploration and come back to the stranger’s face, he lets them sink into dark blue irises for a brief second before he looks away. 

“Can I help you?” Dean croaks as he busies his hands with the stack of paper in front of him, and tries not to look up when the guy moves closer to the desk. Dean never knows how to handle people in a professional environment who don’t dress and behave like people in a professional environment. It’s disconcerting.

“No, I don’t think you can.” Yeah, sure, of course he has to have a gravel deep voice, too. And was that a hint of sarcasm in there?

Dean looks up and finds the guy squinting down at him. He suddenly, fiercely wants to rise from his chair just so he can stare down and make the other one squirm. It’s a childish instinct. Dean suppresses the urge, but barely. 

The stranger carries on. 

“I was sent to set up your computer.”

It doesn’t sound like he’s happy with the task. His stance is perfectly calm, but there’s something condescending about his behavior, and Dean feels judged, unfairly; it makes his hackles rise. 

“I’m not stopping you.” Dean fights hard to keep any indication that he isn’t anything other than totally cool out of his voice. He might fail. 

The tattooed guy laughs, low and without real humor. “Yes, you are. You are literally standing – or rather sitting – in my way.”

A blush burns its way up Dean’s chest, up to his cheeks until it reaches his ears, and with the fire comes the anger, and his jaw clenches and starts to hurt immediately. He stands and goes over to the window without saying a word. 

_ What an asshole. _

Tech guy moves behind his back and soon Dean hears the telltale clicking of someone hammering away at a keyboard, interspersed with mouse clicks and fingers thrumming against a desk. Dean ignores it as best he can and watches a small bird hopping over the wide balustrade under his window. He never worked in an old building before, a building with history in the middle of town, and it’s a nice notion that generations of people in public service shared the same view with him. The idea helps him calm down, even if he gets irritated again whenever he remembers the dick that’s currently working a few feet away from him. 

Finally, blessedly, the sound of the computer shutting down and restarting reaches his ears, and the rustling of clothes indicates Dean will only have to suffer for a few more moments. He straightens and turns. 

“All done?” Dean asks the man. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, thank you…?” 

The man turns and shoots Dean another one of those questioning, arrogant looks that Dean learned to hate in under five minutes. “Castiel Novak.” He doesn’t wait for Dean’s reply, –  _ he knows my name already _ , Dean thinks, but it’s still helluva rude, – and the door falls shut while Dean seethes. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

The first meetings with his other new colleagues prove to be a lot easier and smoother. There’s Donna from public order, Mildred from the mayor’s office, Jody from social services and Charlie, the jane-of-all-trades, who started in IT and later coded and maintained the website. When Mildred had to cut back on hours, Charlie had taken over the press relations. 

Dean likes her immediately. She’s never had any proper education in this field, but her statements and the content online are well-researched and quite good. He can work with that. Charlie agreed to mentor him over the next weeks before they decide on who will be responsible for what in the future. 

“Soooo, Winchester.” She sits on the edge of his desk and dangles her feet. The hideously colorful sweater she wears over some kind of nerdy t-shirt clashes with her bright red hair. Dean doesn’t mention that he doesn’t like people sitting on his desk. Charlie pops a bubble with her gum. Dean grinds his teeth. 

After their quick run-in yesterday Charlie came over to discuss the tasks ahead of them. They brushed by the first-name-basis to the last-name-buddy talk without any relays. 

“Bradbury.” Dean goes for grumpy but is unable to pull it off. Charlie’s positivity is irresistible even to him.

“Did you get your gear set up?” She hops down the desk and peeks under it as if the arrangement of the cables could give her a clue about the status of Dean’s computer. Perhaps it does. Dean never cared for the specifics of his equipment; he just needs it to work. 

“Yes, that guy Novak came around yesterday. Little ray of sunshine.”

“Really?” Charlie straightens with raised eyebrows.

“No,” Dean deadpans. “He’s a jerk.”

“Now, now, I wouldn’t say that. Cas is not exactly a master in the fine art of small talk, but he’s a good guy. And quite easy on the eyes, too, even I have to admit that.”

Dean skips over the part where Charlie is wrong about Novak’s personality to go for the meaty bits. “Even you?” 

Charlie tosses her hair back over her shoulder and grins. “I prefer the gals over the guys. Doesn’t mean I’m blind. Cas may be quiet, but he’s hot.”

Dean shakes his head. “Okay, first, good on you, and good for us, because you’re in less danger to fall for me. That would complicate things.” Charlie makes a gagging noise but Dean ignores her. “Second. Novak’s an asshole, and no one will convince me otherwise.” He holds up his fingers and adds a third one to his raised index and middle finger. “Third. I don’t see the appeal. I think that amount of ink and his choice of clothing are highly unprofessional and Mrs. Moseley would do well to forbid it.”

A low chuckle sounds through the slightly open door from the hallway. Dean recognizes the voice without looking and Charlie turns to shout, “You hear that, Cas? Stop being inappropriately hot!”

“That’s not what…” Dean blusters. How did this turn against him so fast? 

The steps outside recede and take the sounds of amusement with them. Dean exhales a sigh of relief. He meant what he said, and would have told Novak in person, so there’s nothing to apologize for, he tells himself. In fact, he had thought about talking to his new boss about stricter rules concerning the appearance of his co-workers. First impressions and all that. 

Charlie eyes him with a speculating look, but seems to think better of whatever she wanted to say. “Okay. Well, that was… interesting. Should we go over the press releases of the last weeks now?”

The sudden change of topic and her accentuated cheery tone don’t go unnoticed, but Dean is glad he doesn’t have to talk about Novak anymore, so he dives into the stack of print-outs Charlie brought him and starts asking questions. 

 

###

 

“This is great news, Dean.” Sam sounds genuinely pleased and Dean can’t help being slightly irritated. Sam went to Harvard and specialized in social rights cases when he started his practice. Dean with his college degree in marketing and his career at Sandover made him the black sheep of the family. He had to earn money and didn’t see the fault in his choice but Mary and Sam always told him he could do better, do something worthwhile with his life. 

Now they had their way. Dean had become a public servant, had traded his expensive car for his dad’s Impala and his loft would be gone soon, too. His new salary wouldn’t cover his expenses. 

Dean sits in his wide modern living room already debating what furniture he will be able to keep. The room doesn’t have a single personal touch and all of a sudden, he sees it through the eyes of his family. He might be having a late quarter-life crisis, but he can admit the life he’s leaving behind didn’t quite fit him. He wore it like a second hand designer suit that bunched up on his back and felt too tight on his chest. The girls and the parties already feel like distant memories. 

“I had a feeling you would say that,” he sighs and rubs a hand over his face while the other presses his phone to his ear. “It’s not as if I had much of a choice.” Yes, his life might have been shallow and lost its appeal a while ago, but it had been  _ his _ . He had been good at what he did, and the long hours in the office didn’t leave much room for questions about purpose. 

“Sometimes life’s like that,” his smartass brother says, “and it’s a good thing you left Sandover when you did. We… I’m not sure if I should tell you, but we’re building a case against them.”

This doesn’t come as surprise, Dean thinks. Zachariah never had a problem with getting his hands dirty, and while Dean only knew about a handful of illegal deals, he had known enough to finally confront his boss. That didn’t end well. Dean quit. 

“Hm-mhh.” He’s incredibly tired. “Let me know how that works out.”

Sam’s quiet and Dean can hear papers rustling in the background. So he’s still at work. Dean glances at the clock. Nine p.m. 

“You should go home, Sammy, it’s late.” He hasn’t called his little brother that in years, and Sam picks up on it, too. There’s a smile in his voice when he answers. 

“Yeah, soon. I just have to finish this draft. I’ll see you soon, Dean, okay? Good night.”

“Night.” Dean ends the call but doesn’t move from his place on the couch that cost about the sum he now makes in three months. It’s dark but he doesn’t turn on the lights, just lets the night swallow the colors and the contours of the room around him. Surrounded by indistinguishable greys and with only the humming of the fridge for company, Dean admits that it won’t be that hard to leave this place behind. 

It had never really been a home. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

His room hasn’t changed since he left for college. The plaid bedspread, the ridiculously dramatic posters – mostly rock and punk rock bands he hasn’t listened to in years – and the worn paperbacks are still in place. His bed looks tiny. Even his old weed stash in the underwear drawer is where he left it; the small brownish green crumbs bristle drily as he fingers the plastic. He opens the bag to take a whiff but time has left no trace of the spicy-sweet scent. 

Might have been oregano anyways. 

Dean stuffs the duffel with his clothes in the small closet and hangs his wrapped suits on the door to the bathroom he used to share with Sam. Coming home should feel like defeat but the smells and sights of his childhood are comforting. He can hear his mother working in the kitchen under his feet. The floor creaks just the way he remembers, Mary will hear him moving. Dean lies down on his bed and closes his eyes. 

The loft was sold in mere days after he contacted the agent. The busy young couple that bought it couldn’t believe their luck and signed the papers on the spot. 

His mom had teared up when he asked her if he could stay until he found something. 

_ Of course, sweetheart, stay as long as you want _ , she had said, and hugged him tightly. Since Dad died ten years back, she had become distant, more focused. Dean is glad they will have time together now to form a new bond. With a sudden fierceness he wants to get to know his mother – not as a parent, but as a person. He wants to learn how she was like before she married, before she had kids, about her hopes and dreams. She seems so sure of everything, and maybe Dean can learn from her. 

He feels like he’s floating between two sections of his life, and he doesn’t know yet what the next one will be like. What does he even want? Something  _ real _ , a voice deep in his mind says, but he doesn’t know what that means. He’s been running for the last ten years and just now stopped to think about the goal he’s chasing. Making money, surrounding himself with so-called successful people – he always thought he wanted that. But looking back, the memories leave a bitter taste behind. When did he last feel like himself, like he wasn’t playing a role or impersonating a vision of himself he dreamed up years and years ago? 

He stands and undresses to take a shower. Maybe the water will clear his head. He thinks about the work he’s doing now, how different it is compared to what he left behind. His colleagues are driven by purpose and they are genuinely good people. But even though they are enthusiastic about what they do, they still have a life outside work they get back to, families and friends and real connections. He didn’t know how much he craved all that until he came to know Charlie and Jody and Donna …

Unbidden, Novak’s face crowds his mind. Now that guy never questioned who he was, Dean thinks. He might be a jerk, but he seemed so confident in his otherness. Novak is unapologetically himself, and for a moment, Dean considers if that might be the reason Novak’s rubbing him the wrong way. He lathers up his hair, contemplating.  _ Naaah _ . Cool tattoos don’t give Novak the right to treat Dean like something that stuck under his shoe. He’ll make sure to avoid him as much as possible.

With newfound resolve, he rinses and steps out of the shower. The fogged up mirror throws back a contorted version of his face. He wipe the glass with his hands. Green eyes stare back, the familiar cut of his jaw, courtesy of John Winchester, full lips that spawned too many lewd jokes when he was younger, a few lines and wrinkles from too much coffee and long nights in bars and clubs and the office. 

He strokes along the stubble dusting his cheeks and chin. A shave is due, according to his usual schedule. Dean dries off and slips into his pajama bottoms. He can shave tomorrow. 

 

###

 

Dean is being tested. For a long moment, he’s sure he will find hidden cameras and someone will jump out from behind the ficus with the sad yellow leaves to tell him he’s been pranked. 

His computer had broken down yesterday. Dean had called Charlie, but she had only laughed. 

“On no, my dear Dean-o, I’m not the right person to call.” And with that, she had hung up and left Dean staring at the phone for minutes. He had gone home early and postponed the inevitable to the next morning. 

This morning, the godforsaken thing still didn’t work, and so he had reluctantly called maintenance and told the ever-grumpy Bobby that he needed Novak to come over as soon as possible. 

Now his nemesis is crouched under Dean’s desk and fumbles with the wiring. His jeans tug low enough to reveal the first soft curving of his ass. A threadbare Black Flag shirt has ridden up so Dean can see a wide stretch of adorned skin, swirling intricate patterns that look like wings and some kind of flowers. It’s mesmerizing. Dean knows he’s staring and a queasy feeling settles in his gut as he finds himself unable to avert his eyes. Strong back muscles move under Novak’s shirt that rides even higher when he yanks a cord out with a curse. Dean’s fingers tingle with the sudden urge to trail them along the knobs of Novak’s spine, up to his neck and into the dark, unruly hair. 

He clenches his fist.  _ Jesus, what is wrong with him?  _ The fact that he hadn’t got laid in… he tries to remember, but his mind is hazy - maybe two months - shouldn’t be reason enough to put such ridiculous thoughts in his head.

_ And why does this take so long?  _ Dean casts his eyes heavenward but there’s no answer to his prayers. 

Novak wriggles out from under the desk and comes awfully close to Dean’s legs. Sharp blue eyes find Dean’s and for a moment Dean is sure he knows exactly what Dean had been musing about only seconds ago. An angry blush sets his neck on fire and creeps up to his cheeks. 

Novak squints but doesn’t leave Dean’s personal space. Geez, does that guy even know about social concepts? Dean rolls backwards in his swivel chair and takes a deep breath when he brought an acceptable distance between Novak and himself. 

“So?” Dean grunts.

“I will have to take it down to the workshop. Do you have a working laptop here?” 

Dean nods. Charlie told him about it over a few days ago for external meetings. He could borrow it. Now that he thinks about it, Charlie could have offered right away. Dean would have done fine with a laptop forever if that had meant he’d evade this situation. 

Novak grabs the computer, tugs it out from under the desk and stands. The thing can’t weigh more than four pounds, so there’s absolutely no reason for Novak’s arm muscles to bulge like that, Dean thinks. Novak cocks an eyebrow and turns to go. 

“Wait, how long’s the repair gonna take?”

“It takes as long as it takes.”  _ No shit, Yoda. _ “I will let you know.” 

Novak leaves without another word, and Dean wants to throw the fucking ficus after him, the urge so sudden and strong that he curls his fingers into his thigh and bites the inside of his cheek. 

He really has to get a grip. Yes, Novak is a dick, but that only means Dean has to grow a thicker skin. It’s not like he hasn’t dealt with shitheads before. He survived seven years with Zachariah. He sure as hell can learn to ignore one punk with poor social skills. 

With his computer gone, Dean has time to sit down and make plans. His coworkers do a lot of good in town, but it’s not acknowledged enough. Dean’s task is to change that. He sketches a few strategies: social media would be a cheap solution but it comes with a truckload of work he doesn’t have the resources for. It’s only him and Charlie, and there are other things he needs to do first. Like relaunching the website, formulating a media strategy and securing funds for the various projects the town hasn’t got enough money for. 

Speaking of. 

Charlie invited him over to the library the next day. Kids with working parents can do their homework there, and volunteers read stories one afternoon a month. Tomorrow would be the next event. The library had come close to being shut down entirely a few times, and needed money to keep going. 

The council had cut the funds, and there was little hope they would change their minds. Charlie had a few ideas to raise money, some of which are highly unrealistic, but Dean wants to have a look for himself before he decides on a course of action.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

The halls of the old building are ringing with voices. Kids from age six to thirteen crowd the spaces between the shelves and chatter animatedly about the upcoming story sessions. Dean smiles. Hearing a good story is such a simple pleasure, but a lot of children have to go without these days. He had always loved the quiet evenings with Sammy and his mom, as they delved into adventure tales together. 

He makes out Charlie’s bright red hair over the sea of ponytails and crewcuts, and heads over to her. 

“Winchester, glad you could make it. All the reading spots are filled, but maybe you’d like to look around and find out what a magical place this is.” She’s grinning as a small kid tugs on her hand. “Seems like I don’t have time for a chat. Gotta go back to Moondoor.” The flock around her cheers and drags her away. 

Dean takes his time to stroll through the library and lets his eyes wander over the thousands of books. The air smells of old paper and mildew, and he’s reminded of how much he loved to read when he was younger. He hasn’t touched a book in ages, no time for that, and just now realizes how much he misses it. He lets his fingertip trail over the spines of the books. The library is quieter now that the reading sessions have started. He passes two more groups and stops to listen for a while before he travels on. 

When he reaches the south side of the building, he finds a staircase and climbs up to the second level. A familiar voice drifts over from a sitting area, and sure enough, there’s Novak, surrounded by at least twenty kids who watch him with big eyes. Dean hides behind one of the shelves to listen. 

That deep voice is made for reading stories. It’s low and warm, much warmer now without the snark and the sarcasm that drips from every syllable whenever he talks to Dean. Novak changes the cadence and the volume for the different characters of the old folk tale he’s reading. 

Dean glances through the rows of books and finds Novak sitting cross-legged with an old book in his lap. He’s completely lost in the story, just like his audience, and Dean can’t help but let himself be caught in the tale too. Novak turns the pages with his long fingers, reverent as if the book is something to be cherished. The paper whispers softly in the silence when Novak pauses for effect. 

It’s a story about two kids getting lost in the woods, and Dean recognizes it as one of Grimm’s fairy tales. The story is dark and full of suspense, and Novak makes it come alive with his words. Who knew this guy would be such a good storyteller? 

Dean has to admit it’s kinda awesome that Novak spends his free time here to read to kids. Maybe he’s not a complete butthead after all. As he chuckles quietly at the revelation, Novak’s head shoots up and their gazes meet. Something flickers over Novak’s face, anger at the interruption or maybe embarrassment, but it’s gone before Dean can be sure. The room is silent while they assess each other. Dean can hear his own breathing. Novak lowers his head again and keeps reading. Dean wipes his suddenly moist hands on his jeans and turns to go. 

When he comes back down to the first level, Charlie just ends her reading hour and walks over to him. The kids run around her to find a place to sit while a library assistant hands out paper and crayons. 

“I asked them to draw their favorite characters. That’ll occupy those little monsters for a while.” 

Her fond smile betrays her words, as does the gentle pat she gives a small boy who’s already drawing furiously, tongue between his teeth in concentration. 

Charlie leads Dean to an office at the back. A brown haired woman passes them on their way, nodding at Dean and beaming at Charlie. 

“Oh, hi, Dorothy.” Charlie stutters slightly while the greeted sticks out her hand to introduce herself to Dean as Dorothy Baum, the librarian. Dean grips the offered hand and tells her his name. 

“Pleased to meet you,” she says, but her eyes are already back on Charlie. 

Interesting. 

The office is small and cozy. They sit down on a tiny table almost brown from the overlapping generations of coffee stains, a box with homemade cookies between them. Charlie takes one and talks with her mouth full. Dean sighs.  

“We have to do something. Like it’s not enough that the library is poorly funded as it is, there’s this big firm breathing down our neck to sell the property. They want to develop the area for some gated community rich people housing project.” She spits out a few crumbs and wipes them away with an angry motion. 

“Do you know which company’s behind this?”

Charlie looks up and creases her forehead. “Oh shit, I forgot. Uhm. It’s Sandover.” She shrugs in what might be an apology and stuffs another cookie in her face. 

“Huh.” Dean leans back on his squeaky plastic chair and crosses his arms. “Sounds just like something they would do.”

They are quiet for a few moments, that means, as quiet as it can be with Charlie munching on her cookies with gusto. Dean ignores it as best as he can – he’s getting better and better at that –, and turns the news about his former employer around in his mind. He’ll have to do something about it, even if he’s not quite sure yet what that might be. Pushing the problem away for the moment, he looks over to Charlie. 

“So, Dorothy, hmm?” 

Charlie blushes, and it’s so cute Dean wants to hug her and stuff her in his pocket. It’s good to see her so excited, and it looks like Dorothy is interested, too. As if she had waited for the chance to gush about her crush, Charlie dives into a lengthy monologue about how awesome Dorothy is -  _ she has a bike, Dean, a vintage Triumph, and she’s mouthwatering in a leather jacket _ -, about her witty humor and her kindness. Dean listens and smiles, but something tugs in his chest while Charlie talks. 

He asked himself what he wanted. In this moment, he wants to feel the things Charlie feels for Dorothy. 

 

###

 

Dean starts on his new mission the other day. He assembles a list with rich citizens, adds a few business acquaintances, brainstorms ideas for a fundraiser, meets with the staff of the library, and he talks to his brother. 

“Sammy, I got a favor to ask.”

“As long as it’s legal…” Sam hedges, and Dean’s reminded of the last time he asked his brother for something. It had been some info for a shady deal, and Dean feels a blush creep up his neck from the guilt. Lord, he had done some awful things when he worked for Sandover. 

“No, I don’t think it’s illegal. As you’re looking into Sandover, could you have an eye on their attempts to buy the Milford library? I don’t need to know any specifics, but if there’s something fishy going on, please put a stop to it, will ya?”

Sam’s quiet for a long time. Dean can hear him breathing on the other end of the line as he comes to terms with Dean’s new stance on his former employer. 

“Dean. I…” Dean’s sure there’s a chick flick moment coming and his brother’s about to embarrass himself and tell Dean he’s proud of him or something, and no way Dean’s gonna let that happen. 

“Just look into it.”

“Will do,” Sam says, quietly, before he ends the call. 

Dean has this weird feeling in his stomach that he hasn’t had in a long time. A sense of accomplishment, maybe, and he shakes his head at himself.  _ Look at me, being content for doing the right thing.  _ His mother would have a field day. He can’t help but smile at the thought. Maybe there is something to this whole humanitarian deal after all. It feels good to help others and use whatever ability one has to better their lives. 

And the library certainly is making the lives of many people better. Even if you don’t have much money, you can get a card, read books for free, watch movies, use the computers and the wi-fi. It makes a difference in the everyday life in town, and Dean will fight for it to stay that way.

The image of Novak pops up in his mind, as he sat there reading, face wrinkled with concentration and dripping with quiet contentment. For a second, Dean wonders if  _ he _ has been the asshole all along. 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

“Seriously, dude, what’s with up the clothes?”

Novak turns on his chair in the dark basement room. He’s holding court in his little kingdom of discarded hardware. Wires and plastic cases litter the tables under old light bulbs. Dean thinks this would be a perfect setting for a flick about a serial killer. The air has that special dusty yet electric scent to it that makes the hair on Dean’s arms stand up. God knows how old the wires are in this building. 

“Beg your pardon?” Novak squints at him. He’s backlit by his flashing monitor and his hair looks even more unruly than usual. Dean walks over to the workbench and picks up pieces at random. 

“You have to be what? Thirty?” Dean shoots back. 

“Thirty-two,” Novak grumbles. 

“That makes it about ten years in which you should have grown a sense of fashion.”

“I don’t see why my appearance bothers you so much. My clothes are comfortable and I like them.” From the corner of his eye, Dean sees him finger the hem of another faded black band shirt. So it  _ does _ bother him. Or maybe it bothers him that it bothers Dean, a small voice whispers in his head and makes something flutter in his chest. Dean ignores both, the inner voice and that goddamn silly bubbly feeling, to concentrate on the task at hand.

Cas has to know it’s unprofessional. Maybe Dean can still convince him. 

“It casts a bad light on the whole administration. Citizens trust us with caring for their needs. We need to be – and look – professional.”

A deep sound travels over the room and vibrates along Dean’s skin. Novak’s laughing. It shouldn’t feel like a caress. Dean shivers. 

“As I see it, the citizens need us to do our work properly. They shouldn’t care in which attire we do it. I for one don’t put my trust in fancy suits and ties. You of all people should know that expensive clothes are not an indicator of moral values.”

Ouch. That one hurt.  _ So he knows about my last job _ , Dean muses. He finds Novak’s gaze and fumbles for words to defend himself. But Novak isn’t finished. “I care about environmental and social issues. And I like bands that use their music to reach people and educate them about those issues. Maybe you should come and watch a concert with me someday. It might… widen your perceptions.” 

The old snark is back in his voice, and Dean starts to tell him to fuck off with the superior tone. “Novak, listen…”

“Castiel.” 

“What?”

“My name is Castiel. I would ask you to use it.”

Dean reels at what he can only assume is a peace offering. Their gazes lock for a long moment, and Novak …  _ Castiel  _ tilts his head in that way of his that sometimes makes Dean forget that he doesn’t like the guy. 

Dean remembers how he read to the kids and how highly Charlie speaks of him. He decides to be the better man and let it slide. 

“Yeah, sure, maybe we can hang out sometime.” He casts down his eyes and tries the name on his tongue like a foreign dish. “Castiel.”

 

###

 

The wide room sparkles with light and cheap decorations that can’t quite mask the fact that the hall is housing serious, boring, hour-long political discussions on most days. The seats usually taken by the city council are scattered along the walls to make room for a big table with homemade pie, punch and crackers. Dean’s reminded of school dances in cheesy movies, and even the music fits that theme with an assortment of popular 80s songs that make his colleagues sway with tipsy nostalgia. 

His last Christmas party on the job had taken him to a brand new in-club in the city, with models on the guest list and men in expensive suits and unfocused eyes trying to shout over the thrumming bass to brag about their deals and clients. The difference couldn’t be more striking, and yet, Dean feels his shoulders soften with the amiable atmosphere and the way the punch is settling like a warm blanket around his mind. 

Charlie leaves his side to talk to Dorothy. His friend straightens her spine as she walks over and catches another glass of punch on her way. Dean smiles as Charlie holds the glass out to open up a conversation. Dorothy’s face lights up in a beam rivaling the twinkling fairy lights over their heads. Dean won’t be seeing much of Charlie tonight. 

The flocks of people ebb and flow through the room, and most of them stop by to exchange a few word with him. Dean delves into the small talk and finds that he isn’t quite as annoyed by it as he used to be. His coworkers are genuinely nice people, and most of them way more interesting than the ones he used to spend his time with over the last seven years. 

Bela from accounting comes over with a few other people who want to say hi to the new guy and stays by his side. She’s wearing a tight black dress and heels, her hair is crafted into gleaming waves. She smells like roses and something darker whenever she brushes a strand over her shoulder before she leans into Dean’s space to comment on something or another. Her hand lands on his forearm, warm and firm, and Dean turns a bit to bring their bodies just a little closer. The smile that follows the gesture is triumphant. 

Over her shoulder, Dean spots Castiel, who leans casually on the wall next to the loudspeakers, alone, a drink in hand. Their eyes meet over the head of the five or six people currently occupying the dance floor and moving more or less coordinated to  _ Tainted Love _ . 

Bela’s lip grazes the shell of Dean’s ear as she continues her story about her friend Ruby who’s working as an actress and knows all the big names in the city. Dean doesn’t really listen. Castiel is still staring, and Dean feels his ire rise again. He lifts his drink to drain it in one gulp and gently lays his hand on Bela’s waist. 

“Wanna get out of here?” he drawls and watches her eyes lighten up. Her mouth turns into a predatory grin and he’s sure they’re on the same page. They both had three drinks, and Bela’s voice doesn’t even slur a bit when she leans in impossibly closer, presses up to him to say, yes, she’d like that very much. 

With a last look at Castiel’s grim expression, Dean turns and leads Bela out of the room. They have to pass Charlie, who focuses him with a withering glare. Yeah, well, she doesn’t like Bela, and he’s sure this won’t result in anything serious either, but it’s Christmas, and Dean feels a bit lonely, and if Bela does too, then where’s the harm? He cocks an eyebrow at his friend to indicate she can mind her own business, and then they’re outside and the door isn’t even fully closed when Bela pushes him against the nearest wall and her ruby red lips open over his to suck the breath right out of his lungs. 

He doesn’t think after that. 

He leaves Bela’s apartment at the crack of dawn. She wakes up at his rummaging with a lazy smile, moves like a sated cat under the blankets, not a hint of distress at the fact that he’s already up and would have left without saying goodbye. 

“That was fun,” she purrs, and Dean forces a smile. Yes, it was, but the hollowness behind his ribs is still there. 

 

###

 

The house he grew up in is small. He never noticed when he was younger because it was  _ home _ but now he realizes just how tiny the living room is. The whole lower floor would fit into his last apartment without problems. The Christmas tree is squeezed between the couch and the TV just like it always is, and Dean has to take a step back when Mary wants to hang another piece of decoration. 

“You always loved this as a child,” she says as the reaches up to attach a small angel to a branch. 

“Yeah? I remember Dad telling me only girls enjoyed stuff like that.” He laughs and hands his mother another piece. Mary turns and touches his hand.  

“Your father had a lot of questionable opinions on what a man should and shouldn’t do.” There’s a bitterness in her voice Dean hasn’t heard before. She doesn’t talk about John all that often, mostly when they had a few glasses of wine and she recounts the story of how they met – John fresh out of the army, tall and dark and handsome, and how they fell in love over movies and music – a story told so often it’s smooth and devoid of edges like an old stone path. 

“I’m sorry he put those ideas in your head. Sometime I wonder…” Her eyes meet Dean’s and she seems unsure if she should proceed. Dean nods, a small tilt of the head really, to indicate she should carry on. He wanted to learn more about his mother, didn’t he?

“I worried about you. I mean, I always worry about you boys, but… John had a good heart, but the war had made him hard. And he dumped a lot of that on you especially. I tried to counteract it when I could. And when… when he died, you changed. I could only watch as you became hard, too.”

Dean’s throat goes dry. His father’s death – a car accident – had shaken the very foundations of their lives. Mary had thrown herself into her charity work, additional to working full time at a legal office specialized in social rights. Sam had followed her path. He studied law in Harvard, had just come back to work in the same office and was well on his way to making junior partner. It was almost as if John’s death had freed them to do what they wanted; to Dean, it had felt like they had erased his father from their lives. 

John had been a salesman, driving all over the country. Dean remembers how much he looked up to his father and wanted to be just like him. Always on the road in his black shiny car, stopping here and there to broker deals and spend the evenings in dim bars. The slick façade of a businessman had made him untouchable. John had always seemed so focused, so set on his goals and he let nothing get in his way, be it personal attachments or the time he had to be away from his family. Dean had admired that. It’s only now, as an adult, that he’s beginning to see there’s another truth behind the image he had of John Winchester. 

Money had always been tight, especially after John was gone. Dean had worked two jobs besides college, and when he had his degree, he had gone straight for the best paying job he could find. Sandover money had gotten Sam to Harvard, Sandover money had repaired Mary’s roof. So yeah, he had become a salesman, too, and that meant building up that same impenetrable façade. His suit had been his armor, and more money had meant more security. 

“I did it for you,” he says with a waver in his voice that he hates, that he still hates, even when he’s talking to his mom. 

“I know, dear, and I’m so thankful for that. But now you don’t have to care for us anymore. You can do what you want.” She touches his cheek and looks up at him, eyes searching his as if she wants to ask what he wants. 

Hell if he knew. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

Most of the team are gone over the holidays and the hallways are deserted when Dean gets back to the town hall on Monday. He signed up to work because he hopes to get a few things done in the quiet days. It started to snow yesterday, and the world seems muted and peaceful under the fresh white blanket. His office is cosy and warm, and when Dean looks out at the falling snow now and then, he smiles. The hours fly by and he’s productive like he hasn’t been in years, fully immersed in his work without it being stressful or a burden. 

A first draft of his marketing plan for next year is ready by Wednesday, and he sends it to the printer. When he gets to the small room at the end of the corridor, he finds it already occupied. Castiel leans over the machine, top screwed off to lay bare the innards of the machine, and curses softly under his breath. 

Dean thinks about just turning around and leaving, but while he makes up his mind, Castiel must have heard him and lifts his head. 

“Hi,” he grumbles before he leans back down, leaving Dean with the view of his muscled back, barely concealed by yet another threadbare shirt that must be way to cold given the temperature of the room. Castiel’s hair is tousled just like always, and the too bright light of the copy room lets it glint and shine. Dean follows the movement of his arms and leans against the door frame. 

“I need a printout,” he tells Castiel’s back. 

“That’s a shame, you won’t be getting it.” There’s a bite in his tone that Dean thought was a thing of the past. They weren’t exactly friends, but Dean had been sure they had gotten over the blatant hostility. 

“Man, chill. It’s alright. I can wait.”

Castiel huffs a sarcastic laugh and mumbles something unintelligible. 

“Okay, what’s wrong with you? It’s one thing to be a bit behind in the people skills department, but this is ridiculous.” He takes two steps into the room and puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder to make him face Dean. Castiel twitches as if he’s been burned before he turns and shakes Dean’s hand off. His eyes are blazing, and his body curls forward in an open threat. 

“Nothing. Is. Wrong. With. Me.” He bites out every word while his lips draw tight into a snarl. 

Dean knows he should just go, leave this lunatic stewing in his own brand of crazy. He has better things to do, really. He finds he can’t move though. Gazes locked, with only a few inches between them, they are both frozen on the spot. The air is too thick to breathe. Dean’s heart beats a mile a minute, pumps against his ribs in that nauseating way it does when you have to run to catch a bus, without any warm-up; in that way that makes it hard to breathe and that lets your knees go weak with the sudden surge of adrenaline. He’s panting now, and parts his lips to get more air, and his hands curl into fists at his sides. 

Castiel takes it all in, his eyes flicking over Dean’s face with that analytic stare of his, and Dean feels his gaze leave a hot trail wherever it touches, his cheeks, his jaw, his lips. Castiel’s hand comes up and fists into Dean’s dress shirt, as if he wants the leverage to strike Dean, and Dean’s mouth opens around a  _ Wh—  _ when he recognizes the darkness in Castiel’s gaze for what it is. Lust. The instinct to flee or fight that tightened his muscles before morphs into something else, and he’s shocked to find his own deceiving body pressing forward. 

Castiel is flush against the printer, caged by Dean’s still fisted hands. Their breaths are loud in the small room, and Dean is hot all over, blind and dizzy, shocked by the sudden force of his want. Dean watches Castiel’s lips, pink and just a little bit chapped. They must feel dry, he thinks, and just as that thought crosses his mind, Castiel’s tongue darts out to lick them. 

It’s Castiel that breaks the spell, face flushed, and only when Dean sees his dark eyes, his brain starts working again. He pulls back, watches Castiel’s hand untangle from his shirt in slow motion, and panic bubbles up in his stomach, chasing away the heat. 

Castiel’s hand still hovers in the air between them, when Dean turns and runs. 

 

###

 

“I almost kissed him,” Dean admits when he relates the story to Charlie. She nods and gestures for him to continue with a queenlike wave of her hand. 

“I’m not gay, Charlie.” Dean makes it a statement, but he can hear the tremor in his voice. Charlie looks at him, one eyebrow arched high above her right eye, and her stare cuts right through his bullshit. He’s had contract negotiations with international corporations that were less nerve-wracking. 

“No, I see that.”

“Thank you,” Dean shouts and throws his hands in the air. 

“You’re obviously bi. Or pan maybe.”

Dean lowers his hands slowly. His blood runs cold. It’s been so long that he gave in to that part of himself, sometime early in college, that he thought it a thing of the past. For years and years, there had been girls, and girls only. They flew through his life, never leaving serious traces. He just hadn’t had the time or the will to focus. 

Now Charlie faces him with a steady open look, as if she’s got all the time in the world for him to see the truth. That was just a phase, he wants to say, doesn’t everybody experiment at one time in their life? He could tell her it’s perfectly normal to admit guys are attractive, too, appreciate their appearance for purely aesthetic reasons. 

_ Right? _

Charlie stares and stares and all his feeble excuses die on his lips. How long had she known? Does he give off a certain vibe? Is a gay-dar really a thing? His palms are sweaty and Dean wipes them on his pants. He had shoved all thoughts of men down for years, and now that idiot Novak had dragged them back up. He wouldn’t have almost kissed Castiel if there wasn’t some truth to Charlie’s words, would he? If Castiel’s stubble and his strong hands wouldn’t have been so enticing. 

“But I don’t even like him,” he mumbles weakly, and Charlie laughs until her whole body is shaking with it. 

Snorting, she wipes her eyes, and finally cools down. 

“Yeah. No. You two couldn’t tear your eyes from each other from the first day you met. The sexual tension was choking, all the hormones in the air…” She takes in Dean’s shocked features. “Wait. I had to endure your lusting after Cas all this time and you didn’t even know you  _ were _ pining?!”

Dean lets his eyes wander through the room, looking everywhere that is not Charlie’s gaze. He fears he’ll find pity there. Had he known? He’s not sure anymore. Castiel had been in his thoughts a lot lately, with his unruly hair and his infuriating fashion sense and his sassy humor and the way his voice became all soft and gentle when he read to those kids. 

Oh  _ god _ . 

“So he was mad at me because I went home with Bela?” 

“I don’t know, Dean. Why don’t you ask him?”

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

Dean doesn’t ask Castiel because talking about stuff like that is not a thing he does. He does show up in Castiel’s cellar with fresh coffee from the best coffee shop in town and places the steaming cup next to his elbow on the work desk. Castiel doesn’t acknowledge his presence but reaches out for the cup and takes a small sip. Dean waits for five minutes until the silence becomes unbearable. Then he leaves. 

The next day, the chat bubble on his computer pops up. 

_ Friday, 8 pm, Barker Str. 6 _

When Dean arrives at the address Castiel gave him, he has to smile. He never knew the name of the road when he was a kid, as they always just turned a left at the greasy pizza joint when he met up with his friends. The dimly lit alley hasn’t changed. The backs of tall brick buildings crowd the cobblestone path to the club that ran under the name “Roadhouse” when he was a teenager and now is called “The Pit”. Dean makes his way over, careful not to slip on the wet pavement, and takes in the crowd at the door. Black is the color of choice. Ripped jeans, ratty shirts, leather jackets – it’s like these people all follow Castiel’s fashion blog. 

Castiel leans next to the entrance and watches Dean approach, a smug expression curling around his lips and wrinkling his eyes. His posture is casual and relaxed but Dean feels Castiel’s intent focus on him. Dean squares his shoulders and saunters over. 

“Hey, Cas,” he says and revels in the surprised twist of Cas’ eyebrow. Dean chuckles. “If you thought I would turn and run at the prospect of all this,” he spreads his arms to indicate the setting and the crowd, “you are mistaken. I spent the better half of my youth in that club.”

Cas’ face betrays nothing but he keeps staring. “You called me Cas.” 

Dean’s neck is burning. Yeah, he did that, and if he’s being honest, he didn’t do it solely to nag Cas, but because calling him Castiel or Novak doesn’t feel right anymore. 

“Hmm, I did. Get used to it,” he bites out and looks over to the door. He swears he can see a small smile forming on Cas’ lips from the corner of his eyes though and something loosens in his chest. The wall next to them is plastered with paper. Between the dozens of new and old posters it’s hard to make out who’s playing today. “So. What untalented high school punk band will I have the pleasure to see tonight?”

Cas huffs. “Death on a Tuesday,” he says, annoyance palpable in his voice. 

Dean’s eyes widen and he can do nothing to control the grin that splits his face. “For real?”

“For real.” Cas pushes himself off the wall – again with the personal space – and brushes past Dean to the door. 

Inside, not much has changed since Dean last came here. The bar is still where it used to be, still only serving two kinds of beers, some unknown fair trade brand of coke, cheap whisky, cheaper tequila. The same grumpy bartenders move behind the waist high counter, not bothering to smile or flirt with the customers. Place your order, take your drink, pay, and go. 

The stage is still small, really just a few boards on the stone floor. Black monitors indicate the superficial divide between band and crowd, a barrier that will be blurring and given up sometime in the middle of the first song. The air smells like stale beer and mold, the sweat of thousands of angry teenagers, dust and just a hint of weed. 

Cas goes over to the bar to get them beers while Dean takes the scenery in with an unexpected burst of warm nostalgia. 

“What I don’t understand is,” Cas says when he comes back, as if he’s taking up the thread of an earlier conversation, which he is not, “how does someone who used to hang out here become a corporate zombie?” Cas nuzzles his bottle innocently and watches Dean with an open and intent expression. 

Dean swallows a sharp response to the insult with a good dose of lukewarm beer. He makes a face but doesn’t comment on the beverage. He  _ does _ look at the label for the expiring date though, relieved when it says he still has a month to force the bitter brew down. 

“You know, some of us grow out of that phase and decide to behave like adults,” he bites out. 

A crease builds between Cas’ thick dark brows and fine lines appear around his eyes as he squints. He looks like an angry cat. Dean tries to not find it adorable. 

“I don’t see how having a social conscience and appreciating good music is something I should  _ grow out of _ .” 

Dean still doesn’t like that sarcastic tone. His neck prickles with anger, but he can’t for the life of him come up with a witty comeback. Had it been some high school band, he might have argued that they aren’t really good, that the songs didn’t carry any meaning. But  _ Death on a Tuesday _ ? No way, the lie won’t cross his lips. 

Cas watches him in silence and then turns to the stage as the first bellows of the bass drum set the fast-paced rhythm for the opening song and the lead singer saunters on stage to grip the mic and start screaming. 

 

###

 

The sound hasn’t changed. The atmosphere hasn’t changed. The air is charged with energy, the crowd’s shouting and sweating along with the band. Cas and him are close enough to the stage to see what’s happening but far enough away to make room for an impressive pit that builds in an instant. 

The club is tightly packed. Cas is pressed to his side, and Dean can feel moisture building where their arms touch. It’s suffocating. 

Dean tries to concentrate on the music, but it’s a battle he can’t win, given how hyper aware he is of Cas’ skin touching his. He can’t remember standing next to a person having that kind of effect on him – ever maybe. He carefully draws his arms back a little so he can breathe properly for just a second. 

When a guy stumbles out of the mosh pit against Dean, Cas has to step behind him. Oh well. Be careful what you wish for. Instead of Cas’ arm, it’s now his whole body that’s pushed against Dean’s, a warm and solid presence at his back. 

They move with the crowd, get pulled with the swaying tide of bodies, but Dean can’t concentrate on anything except Cas’ breath on his neck and his chest moving against him with every inhale. On instinct, he leans back into the heat, hoping that Cas will not recognize it as the needy gesture it is. Dean shudders despite the stifling warmth in the room. 

And then Cas’ hand is on his hip. 

He might be doing it to find his balance, Dean reasons. 

Dean waits two seconds, ten, twenty, and the hand is still there, Cas’ body is still so, so close and when the guys in front of him push forward and he’d have room to take a step into the opening, Dean stays right where he is. 

They stand there, a quiet spot in the raging crowd, and they don’t move. If they move, they’ll break the trance. If Dean moves, he’ll have to admit what he’s doing here, that he’s in no way here and this close to Cas because he likes to hang out with him. Every fiber of his being wants to get closer, closer until skin meets skin. It’s a need so powerful and unprecedented that it makes Dean’s knees weak and his chest tight with breathless anticipation.

Cas’ cheek touches the side of Dean’s neck. A hint of stubble sends sparks along his skin. Dean leans his head back just a fraction. His nerves are on fire from even this, from the possibilities, stoked by the hard rhythm of the drums and the pulsing guitars and the angry shouts of the frontman. 

It’s like he stumbled into the twilight zone, a place where his past and his present intertwine and dissolve the years between into something grey and intangible. He hasn’t felt this alive in forever. He can’t hear his own thoughts over the noise, but Cas’ exhales meet his sweaty skin faster now, and his own pulse picks up speed, his blood pumps in his veins fast and thick like the rhythm of the base drum. 

Dean suddenly, fervently wishes he was drunk so he’d have the guts to let this play out, to turn and press up to Cas, to card his fingers through that constant sex hair and grip the darks strands until Cas moans. Cas’d shoot Dean one of those intense stares and Dean’s jeans grow tight just thinking about it. Nobody would care if they’d move against each other in the middle of the crowd. Dean closes his eyes as he lets the fantasy unfold behind his lids and heat pools deep in his belly. 

Cas’ lips brush over his pulse and Dean’s moan dissolves unnoticed in the noise around them. 

A bulky guy with long black hair crushes into them and Cas has to take a step to the side. The trance is broken and the reality of the situation punches Dean in the face. A cold draft makes him shiver. He suddenly sees the situation with crystal clarity. 

He almost made out with Cas in the middle of a punk concert, rubbed against him like a cat in heat… What the hell is wrong with him?

Dean mumbles an excuse and practically runs to the bar. Goddamn, he needs a drink and he needs it now. 

Cas finds him three whiskeys later. He leans against the bar next to where Dean is sitting and says nothing. The band stopped playing a while ago. 

Dean cradles his glass and watches the amber liquid slosh around the remnants of two ice cubes. That’s the second time he’s run away after getting close to Cas. Where’s all the cocky confidence he could rely on for the fifteen-odd years of his dating life? He wants something, he takes it, that’s who Dean Winchester is. And if he isn’t sure now, maybe that’s a sign Cas isn’t worth the hassle. 

A hand lands on Dean’s elbow. 

“Dean,” Cas says, but Dean can’t look at him, not now. “I don’t know what I did wrong, but I assure you, I didn’t mean to spook you.”

_ No _ , Dean wants to say, _ it’s not your fault, it’s mine, I’m a mess _ . What he says is, “You did nothing wrong.”

Cas sighs. “I am sorry anyway. I’ve never been good at reading people, but I thought… There are mixed signals in your behavior and it confuses me. Charlie told me to give you time, and I am willing to do that. I think I stated my interest quite clearly, but in case I misread the situation, I want you to know that I enjoy spending time with you, and I’d like to see where this can go. But if that is not reciprocated, we never have to speak about it again.” 

That was the longest speech Dean had ever heard Cas utter, so carefully worded, without even a hint of his usual undertones, and something in Dean recognizes that it can’t have been easy for him. A warm feeling blooms in his chest and battles the cold panic and self-hatred he has nursed for the last half hour. 

“I… I don’t…”  _ What? I’m not interested? _ That’s a blatant lie, and even Cas with his poor people skills knows that.  _ I’m terrified of how you make me feel?  _ Yeah, that’s more like it, but Dean will rip his own tongue out before he admits it out loud. 

The offer Cas makes is tempting. Dean only has to say the word, and Cas will keep his distance, not ever mention it again. That would be the easy way out, to just ignore the way they look at each other, ignore the way the air charges with possibility whenever they are in the same room, ignore the burning curiosity to figure Cas out, learn more about him and let himself open up about all that’s on his mind. 

When did all that happen? In the course of a few weeks, Cas has hammered away the bricks Dean build around himself, and he doesn’t even know he did it, doesn’t even know how bare and vulnerable it makes Dean feel.  

He dares to look over briefly and meet Cas’ eyes. His gaze is open and unsure, and the corners of his lips curl just the slightest bit upwards when he sees Dean looking at him. It’s a not a good smile. It’s a smile that speaks of defeat. The kind of smile that makes your cheeks hurt. 

The hand on Dean’s arm tightens. Cas nods. 

“Good night, Dean,” he says, and then he leaves without waiting for an answer.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

Feeling completely out of his depth when it comes to his personal life, Dean does what he does best: he buries himself in work. The date for the fundraiser is set for the end of February and Dean starts planning, plotting and organizing. On the side, he sets up a Facebook and starts to fill it with tidbits from the Town Hall – 300 followers seem to think it’s worth reading so far, count rising steadily. 

A few weeks before the event, Bobby Singer hovers in his door. 

“Something I can help you with?” Dean rumbles. 

“Don’t get cocky, boy.” Bobby comes in and sits at the meeting table before he whips off his grimy cap and turns it in his hands. 

Dean watches him and waits. He has no idea what brought the old man to his office, but their interactions in the last weeks have told him that the conversation will follow Bobby’s terms, not Dean’s. 

“You’re doing good here, Dean,” Bobby finally says, and whatever Dean had anticipated, this was not it. The praise is as unexpected as if Bobby had turned up at work in a Hawaiian shirt. Or a proper dress shirt at all, instead of his antique sweaters. 

Bobby looks up now to take in Dean’s shocked face. “My late wife, Karen, she worked at the library before she…” Bobby clears his throat and Dean can see how hard this is for him. A surge of affection tightens his chest, affection for the grumpy old man he came to think of as a fatherly friend. 

Bobby puts his cap back on. “Rescue that library. It means a lot to so many people.” He stands and goes over to the door. “I’m proud of you.” 

And with that, he’s gone, leaving Dean stunned at his desk. Tears are pricking at the corner of his eyes, and he tries telling himself it’s from the dust of the paper stack Charlie brought over the other day. It’s a lie, though, and he knows it. 

 

### 

 

Cas walks by his open door and says hi a few times a week. Dean then rustles some papers and acts like he doesn’t have time for a chat. It’s cowardly, but this thing boiling in the back of his brain is intimidating and he can’t face it right now. It’s not really that Cas is a guy, it’s the way Cas gets under his skin, and it’s the years of conditioning that anything,  _ anything _ that gets under his skin is to be seen and exploited as a weakness. 

Dean gave up rock music, and his muscle car, he gave up dating feisty women and burly guys and settled for flings with pretty girls. He built a persona from scratch, smooth and slick, and cut away the edges until he could fit in perfectly, be untouchable in a world full of sharks. When he looks in the mirror, really lets himself look, he knows he’s not that person anymore, maybe never was. In this new life, he can be himself and grow back all the imperfections he worked so hard to hone down and smooth out. 

And the more he lets those parts of him come back to the surface, the more he recognizes the face in the mirror as himself. Gritty humor, nights spent in rock bars, learning to trust his new friends – layer after layer he re-acquaints himself with who he is and who he feels good to be. And he acknowledges what he wants, step by step. His nights are filled with half-formed images of moving bodies, dark hair and long, slender fingers curled into his clothes.

Cas seems to know he can’t bring himself to talk to him in person, so he starts chatting with him. He sends him a link to a blurred video of the concert they saw together and they discuss their favorite albums. And Dean learns about Cas’ past. Cas has five siblings, and grew up in a religious household, and he hasn’t talked to his parents in years. It’s all stated as facts, written in the same kind of stilted prose that Cas uses in person, but Dean can read between the lines. The person Cas is today was formed from struggles against the expectations of others. Dean can’t help but be impressed by that. 

He’s glad Cas doesn’t cut their interactions completely, and Dean is sure in time his infatuation will fade and they can become friends. Swapping their life stories in chats is a step in that direction, as he can come to know Cas better without the tension that hangs in the air whenever they get close. His hopes that the attraction or the curiosity to learn more about Cas would fade with time, though, are crushed repeatedly. 

Cas is witty and empathetic, he’s adamant about his political and ethical views, and even if they’re separated by two floors, Dean’s stomach flips whenever the chat bubble on his desktop pops up. He feels like a teenager swapping notes under the table, and is surprised how much he enjoys it, the excitement for even the most mundane text from Cas. 

Dean can't get enough of learning more and figuring Cas out. It's a feeling he can't remember ever experiencing before. If there had still been a chance for that, he would ask Cas on a date again, take him to his favorite burger joint in Cincinnati that marked one of the only highlights in his time at Sandover. But that ship has sailed, and Dean is happy to still have Cas’ friendship.

And seriously, he can be glad to be deemed worthy of even that. The more he learns about Cas, the more Dean feels like he’s way out of his league. There’s not much he has to show for himself - living with his mom, no noteworthy interests or hobbies. His last job doesn’t count as an achievement in Cas’ book, and over the last weeks, Dean has started to share that opinion. 

Dean knows he’s attractive, has been told over and over his whole life, and even with a few wrinkles here and there, he still gets interested look from men and women alike. If he reads the stolen glances from Cas right, he’s pretty sure Cas finds some appeal in his appearance too. Problem is: looking good doesn’t make him relationship material, and his love life is proof of that. Maybe he’s not cut for the long run, or maybe there’s just not enough to him to make anyone stay. 

And while he’s sure Cas would be bored in no time, if they took the chance, Cas stays where he is, and keeps chatting with him, asks questions about Dean’s life as if he really wants to know. Dean can picture it, all too clearly, that this could grow into something more, something solid. Cas sees right through his bullshit, and they fall into easy banter so easily it feels like they’ve known each other forever. Other times Dean’s sure he only just scratched the surface, when Cas surprises him with his knowledge of politics or Greek philosophy. Whenever he learns something new about Cas, it only makes him want to learn more. Whenever they end their chat, he’s already looking forward to the next. He spends his evening reading up on the topics Cas last mentioned, so they can discuss them together. 

He even got a library card. 

 

###

 

It’s a late night, the evening before the fundraiser, and Dean still has a shitload of work to do. As much as he likes his colleagues, he sometime enjoys staying late just to have the floors to himself. 

_ C: Are you still working?  _

_ D: Yeah, the guest list for the fundraiser is due. 200 of Milford’s VIP. Did you get your invitation? _

_ C: Yes. Does that mean I’m one of the 200 most important people? _

_ D: Definitely more important than Amara Shurley and the likes, but no one’s listening to me. They got the money. I hate kissing rich people’s asses, but I don’t have much of a choice.  _

_ C: It can be quite enjoyable, though.   _

Dean inhales sharply and stares at Cas’ text for two minutes. His collar gets so tight he has to open a button. He thinks about opening the window, too, because the room sure has gotten stifling warm all of a sudden. He thought Cas had moved on, that this part of their relationship was over before it had fully begun. The cursor blinks in the chat box, challenging him to write something, anything, for his lack of response makes this bigger than it is, just a non-committal flirty joke made late at night between friends. 

_ D: Oh yeah? Since you’re an expert, maybe you can give me some pointers? _

Dean’s heart is hammering in his chest and in his ears as he waits for Cas’ answer. Will he laugh it off as a joke? Or will he invite Dean to show him? He never knows with Cas, and that is equal parts terrifying and addictive. 

_ C: It works best when my partner is on hands and knees in my experience, on a bed, while I kneel behind them.  _

Okay, Dean should have seen that coming, the way Cas tends to take shit literal. His pants grow tight from the image Cas’ words conjure, himself naked and exposed while Cas kneels behind him, watching. He presses his palm to his crotch to ease some of the tension, but the contact only makes it worse. His hands tremble when he puts his fingers back on the keyboard, ready to tell Cas he’s gotta go, see ya. 

_ D: And then? _

_ C: I would advise to use both hands to spread their cheeks, to gain better access. This depends on their built of course, and of how far they already spread their thighs.  _

Dean groans. Leave it to Cas to make this clinical description the hottest thing Dean read in a long while. He can hear Cas’ voice, all deep and gravelly, telling him what he’s about to do to him in the most simple and somber words. Dean’s glad his door is closed and he’s alone on his floor. 

_ D: Naturally. Let’s assume one’s hands are free. _

_ C: That’s convenient, for various reasons. One, I can stroke over all the skin I can reach to relax my partner and heighten the anticipation.  _

Dean almost, almost doesn’t want to ask, but he’s incapable of ignoring Cas’ hook. 

_ D: And two? _

_ C: I can masturbate while I pleasure my partner. At this point, the sight and the prospect of what follows can be quite arousing, so it’s advantageous to have this option.  _

Dean gives up. Staring at the screen, reading and rereading Cas’ words while his mind is furiously supplying images of Cas stroking himself, he pops the button of his slacks and leans back to open the zipper. This is so far beyond inappropriate, he would fire himself for just thinking about it, but his body screams at him to do something about the raging hard-on he’s sporting from Cas’ sex ed: rimming 101. He sighs when he wraps his left palm around his cock and tugs a few times, blissed out from the friction. With clumsy fingers, he types with his right. 

_ D: Sounds reasonable. What’s next? _

_ C: The anus is a very sensible part of the human body. Oral stimulation can be quite overwhelming, so I tend to start slow. A sufficient amount of saliva helps easing the way. Licking and gentle sucking are a viable way to prepare.  _

Dean groans. The sound echoes from the ancient walls and vibrates deep in his chest. The screen pings. 

_ C: Are you still following? I hope I’m not boring you yet.  _

_ D: Fuck Cas _

That little shit. He knows exactly what’s happening here, doesn’t he? Dean can see him sitting in his basement, grinning sardonically while he tortures Dean, makes him ache for him. 

_ C: Where was I? Oh yes, the licking and the sucking.  _

Dean is moaning now, and he has to close his eyes for a second. He wants that, god, how much he wants. He wants Cas’s tongue on him, in him, he wants Cas to pant against him while he’s jerking himself. It’s such a crude picture, but he can’t get enough of it. His screen pings with another message. Dean blinks his eyes open and stills his hand on his cock, just to feel it twitch when he reads Cas’ text. 

_ C: Now, I like to take my time with the actual penetration. I start with just the tip of my tongue, pressing forward, easin g back. If you have a loud partner, this is teh point where they usually start to moan and keen.  _

_ D: Yes _

Dean picks up speed, panting now with every twist of his hand, and he’s wet with precome, dribbling over his fist, easing the way. The sounds he makes echo from the walls of his office. It’s downright filthy. He wishes Cas could hear it. 

There were fucking typos in his last text, he suddenly realizes, and that does change things, doesn’t it. Smiling, he reaches out with his right hand and grabs his phone to punch in -248, Cas’ number. Cas picks up after the first ring, groaning right into Dean’s ear in the most debauched way.

“What then?” Dean gasps, not caring one bit about how needy he sounds. 

“I might have to hold you steady with my free hand on your hip while I lick into you, feel you clenching and trembling around my tongue, and you’re begging for more… push back against my face, so eager…”

Cas’ voice is hoarse and broken, so goddamn deep it’s not fair, and to hear him slipping does things to Dean. He had already been close, but with every filthy word that falls from Cas’ mouth, he’s drawing closer to the edge. His muscles tense and…

“Ah, fuck. Dean!” Cas is coming with a shout and Dean can  _ hear  _ it in the way his voice is breaking, can envision it so clearly it sears his mind. Dean pumps his fist, hard, and then his whole body spasms as he comes all over his hand, not caring to stifle the choked-out groan with Cas’ name in it. 

There’s nothing but ragged breathing now, it carries over the phone like static. The rustling of clothes. Then he can hear the clicking of Cas’ keyboard.

_ C: That escalated quickly.  _

_ D: Do you regret it? _

_ C: No. Do you? _

_ D: No.  _

“See you tomorrow?” Dean asks. 

“I look forward to it. Now that I know about the VIP treatment.” 

Dean blushes, but straightens his shoulders and grips the phone tighter. 

“In your dreams,” he answers, but it’s coming out a lot less cocky than he aimed for, and sounds like something else entirely. 

“Oh, you can be quite certain about that.” There’s a grin in Cas’ voice, and the weird flip in Dean’s stomach is back. 

“Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

When Charlie comes around the next day, she takes one look at Dean and closes the door behind her. 

“You look like shit,” she states with concern written all over her face. 

“I feel like shit,” Dean answers and rubs a hand over his eyes. His lids feel as if there’s fine sand underneath them, chafing his eyeballs raw. He slept two hours at best, tossed and turned the whole night. When he didn’t curse his own stupidity to let things go that far with Cas or freaked out to see him again, he lay awake because he couldn’t get the images their little chat had conjured out of his mind. So he spent the night one part embarrassed, one part self-loathing and one part turned on – a mix that left him wary and wrung out this morning. 

Charlie comes over to sit on his desk, her hands folded in her lap in what might be her best therapist impersonation. 

“Spill.”

Dean’s body is too tired to muster a blush, so he just casts down his gaze. “Uhm, I… I might have had… kinda… I don’t know what to call it?” He takes a deep breath and meets Charlie eyes. “I chatted with Cas. Yesterday evening.”

“You… chatted.” Charlie watches him intently. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

“Yeah, no. We text each other all the time. This time, uhm, was different.” And oh, there it is, his heart finally manages to push the blood up his chest and his neck, and he can feel the redness creeping up his cheeks. 

“Different, how?” Charlie starts and then her eyes widen. “Dean Winchester, are you telling me what I think you’re telling me? Here?” She looks around frantically and lifts her thigh as if to make sure she doesn’t sit in any evidence before he gaze settles on the keyboard. 

“So, you had cyber-sex with Cas, is that correct?”

Dean thinks Sam could learn a thing or two from her in terms of interrogating people, because he sure feels like he’s the suspect of a major crime right now. 

“Yes, no, kinda. I don’t know what that term entails, but yeah, some of it… went down over the phone, though.”

Charlie laughs at him, but it’s warm and she seems to be genuinely happy to hear it. “A few weeks ago, you flinched every time I chew a gum a work, and look at you now, jacking off to something Cas wrote while sitting at your desk. I’m strangely proud of you. Even if it’s gross.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. In a way, she’s right, he wouldn’t even have dreamed of something like that a few weeks ago. And he has to admit, it was exciting and very, very hot when it happened. That doesn’t change the fact that he has no idea what to do now. 

He sighs. “What do I do now?”

Charlie hops off the desk and comes over to touch his shoulder. Dean leans into it, thankful for her support and for the gesture. 

“Do you like him?” she asks, her voice kind and empathetic.

“Yeah,” Dean whispers, because  _ that _ he’s sure of. He likes Cas and his quirky clothes, his stilted way of using words, his elegant hands and his sarcasm, he likes Cas’ eyes and how they seem to change color when he’s upset or stressed or happy. 

“Then go for it. Because I’m sure he feels the same way.”

 

###

 

After a few last minute challenges – the catering firm calls and tells him they’re out of mini-burgers, there’s a problem with the chandeliers and Dorothy bombarded him with a thousand other questions – Dean gathers his notes and makes ready to leave the office. He still has to get his suit from dry-cleaning and then he’ll head over to the library to oversee the last preparations. 

Events of this size are always draining. It’s nearly impossible to plan for every eventuality, and in the end, one just has to go with the flow and hope for the best. Dean usually loves the chaos just hours before the doors open, when he has to make quick decisions and find solutions in a blink of an eye. Today, though, he’s mostly tired and he kind of wishes the whole thing would go away so he could go home and roll into a ball on his bed, snuggle under the covers and never get out again. 

Charlie makes it all sound so easy, boy likes boy and everything will be butterflies and sunsets, but he’s sure it won’t work that way. He’s not exactly relationship material, the past proved that, and he doesn’t want to start something with Cas only to fuck it up two weeks later. 

When he reaches the door, about to turn off the lights and lock his office, the phone rings. With a sigh, Dean lets his bag fall onto the next chair and goes back to the desk. It’s not Dorothy, which he takes as a good sign, but an unknown number. 

“Dean Winchester.” 

“Yeah, Dean, it’s Sam. Do you have a minute?”

Dean sits down at his desk. “Sure, Sammy, what’s up?”

“So you asked me about Sandover and their plans for the Milford library a while back. By the way, how’s the charity ball? When was it again?”

“Today.” Dean rubs a hand down his face to clear his head. “It’s today. That’s why I’m a bit in a hurry.”

“I’ll make it quick. It’s quite a coincidence that the ball is today, since I have good news. We’re going forward with our allegations against Sandover, and as a first reaction, they took back their offer to buy the block. That means no more pressure on the library from their side.”

“Sam, that’s awesome! I don’t even wanna know what kind of dirt you found, but I’m glad they’ll have to answer for it.”

“I couldn’t share that with you in any case. But we’re confident that the trial will turn out in our favor. I… it’s possible that you will be asked to testify against them.”

Dean had feared that, so it doesn’t come out of the blue. And he thought about it, a lot. His palms are sweating where he holds the phone, but his voice is resolute when he answers. “Of course, Sam, I’ll do whatever I can to right the wrongs they did.”

Sam lets out a breath he clearly must have been holding. It hurts a little to know Sam wasn’t sure how Dean would react, but Dean can’t blame him for that. He’d been the one who tried to justify Sandover’s business practices for years. 

“I’m so happy to hear that, I really am, Dean.” There’s a pause as if he wants to say something else, so Dean fills the silence. 

“Look, I really gotta go. Thanks for the heads-up!”

Sam chuckles. Even after all these years in which they barely talked, Sam still knows every single one of Dean’s evasion tactics. “Okay. Take care, and have fun tonight.”

Dean stares at the phone for long minutes after they hung up. With the trial, another part of his old life will be closed and over forever. Until today, the memory of his time at Sandover clung to him like a bad smell, following him in everything he did. Now he’ll get the chance to leave it all behind him, take up position against his former employer, and it’s a liberating feeling. With a smile, he grabs his bag and closes the door behind him. The evening doesn’t seem quite as daunting anymore when he pictures Dorothy’s face when he tells her the news. Maybe it’s a day for new chapters.

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

If he didn’t know better, he wouldn’t recognize the library. Most of the shelves on the first floor have been moved to the walls to make room for a dancefloor. A small stage has been built on the side opposite the door and when Dean arrives, the caterer is just setting up an impressive buffet next to the check-out counters. Long drapes of cloth draft down from the high ceiling, subdued colors, dark green and grey, setting off the polished wood of the shelves and the walls. Chandeliers twinkle in the stark light. Later, they will turn off the overhead light and the room will glow under the light cast from the crystal.

Dean lifts his suit bag higher over his shoulder and goes to find Charlie and Dorothy.

He finds them sitting together at the small coffee table in the office, both on one side, shoulders pressed together, parting only an inch when Dean enters. They both look up to greet him and Dean is delighted to see a slight flush on Charlie’s cheeks. He’s happy to see his friend happy.

“Hi Dean,” Dorothy says as she kicks out a chair on the other side of the table. “The caterer is already here, looks like they found an adequate replacement for the burgers.”

Dean sits and sighs dramatically. “I’m not sure there’s such a thing, but at least the guests won’t go hungry.” Charlie leans over and pats his arm. Dean catches her hand and squeezes it lightly.

“I’ve got great news,” he starts and tells them what Sam called him for. Somewhere in the middle of his story, Charlie and Dorothy turn to hug each other, faces beaming, and Dean’s heart is twisting just a little when they kiss.

 

###

 

The party is in full swing, and from what Dean can gather, it’s a success. Briefcases are opened easily and Dorothy has to struggle to keep up with the donations. Charlie is setting sponsorships up for single shelves of the library where the sponsor get a small brass plate with their name on it that will be attached to the fronts.  _ Rich people love to see their names on stuff _ , she had insisted when she pitched the idea to Dean, and she was right. After a few hours, half of the bookshelves have sponsors that will donate a monthly fee for the next years.

The library looks like a ballroom from another century. The band plays swing tunes and classics from the last 80 years to enhance that timeless atmosphere. Women with beautiful gowns float over the dancefloor, delicate hands clasped tightly by the palms of their partners, mostly men in expensive suits, and all their eyes twinkle in the dim light, some of them a little glassy from the drinks at the bar.

That’s where Dean is stationed and helps pouring scotch and champagne, chatting with the guests and keeping an eye on things. That is, he mostly keeps an eye on the door. Cas hasn’t shown up yet, and Dean’s not sure if he is disappointed or relieved. Around eleven, he tells himself Cas won’t come, and he even manages to not let his eyes wander over the heads of the guests to search for the telltale mop of dark hair – for ten minutes. 

The barkeeper, Benny, a big guy with a warm Cajun accent and a sixth sense for the psychological states of his guests, corners Dean after about an hour. In another situation, in another life, Dean wouldn’t have minded if Benny would show interest in him. He’s got broad shoulders and kind eyes, and for a second, Dean wishes fervently he wasn’t so gone on a guy who will most likely stand him up tonight.  

“You waitin’ for someone?” Benny drawls. 

“No,” Dean starts and his neck is tingling from the intensity of Benny’s stare. “Yes. But I guess I shouldn’t.”

Benny humphs and dries a glass. “I know the look in your eye, man. That look says you’re way beyond reason. I hope they’ll show up, must be something to make a guy like you pine like that.”

“I am not …” Dean stop himself from denying it. “Yeah, he’s something.”

Charlie shows up next to him half an hour later.

“It’s going pretty well, I’d say. Dorothy still has her hands full with taking money from the generous supporters. You did it!” She holds up her hand for him to high-five. Dean indulges her.

“Yes, I guess so,” Dean murmurs absentmindedly while opening a new champagne bottle. The cork pops and he hastens to hold the bottle over the waiting glasses.

“Then why do you look like someone kicked your dog?”

Dean takes a breath and shoots Charlie a side-long look.

“Cas didn’t show up yet?” she asks and turns to look for herself.

“No,” Dean says. He doesn’t need Charlie’s pity, except he kinda does. “Might be for the best. Things would be... awkward, most likely.”

“I’m sorry.” She sounds like she means it, and it makes something loosen in Dean’s chest. He’s sorry, too.

It’s close to midnight, and Dean has given up the last dredges of hope, when Cas finally does show up. At first glance, Dean doesn’t recognize him. They never talked about the dress-code and Dean realizes with a start that he didn’t even bother to advice Cas on his clothes when he invited him. As things stand, he wouldn’t care if Cas showed up in a bathrobe and work-boots and that says a lot about how absolutely gone he is on the guy.

Cas weaves his way through the crowd on the dancefloor, purpose in his long strides, and Dean’s chest is too tight to breathe all of a sudden. Cas is wearing a black suit and the fine fabric hugs his frame in all the right places. His shoulders look wide, his hips narrow, his legs powerful, and the blue of his shirt sets out his eyes in a disconcerting way. The top button on his collar is open, and Dean knows that when Cas is close enough, he’ll see a tendril of his ink peeking out.

Cas styled his hair, but instead of alleviating Dean’s attraction, it somehow makes things worse, because now all Dean can think of is running his hands through the darks strands, tugging, messing it up again. He balls his hands into fists, gaze still roving all over Cas’ body, and his blood roars in his ears just from how delectable he looks.

When Cas reaches the bar, a small smile forms on his full lips.

“Is this adequate?” he rumbles and tugs on his jacket.

Dean gulps down the lump in his throat. 

“Yeah,” he croaks. “You look… “ Dean swallows again. “You look fantastic. Wouldn’t have thought you could dress up like that.”

“There are still a few things you don’t know about me.” Cas makes it sound like a dirty promise, and Dean’s breath quickens. “Though I mean to change that.”

“I’d like that,” Dean croaks, because however frightened he might be of what’s between them, he decides then and there that he won’t let this chance slide.

Their eyes meet for long moments. Whatever Cas finds in Dean’s, it seems to be what he wanted to see, and his smile widens. 

“So, what beverage do you recommend?”

 

###

 

The crowd dissipates slowly, and Dean can leave his spot behind the bar where Benny is perfectly capable to handle the orders alone.

He can make out Charlie’s bright red hair on the other side of the dancefloor. Cas is standing next to her, whispering something in her ear that makes her laugh loud enough for the sound to carry over the room. Dean takes three glasses of champagne and walks over to them, but is stopped after a few steps by Mrs. Moseley. She congratulates and thanks him warmly before she shoos him off with a pat on his back.

When he reaches Charlie and hands her one of the glasses, Cas is gone. He clinks the flute to Charlie’s and takes a drink, before he looks around.

“Where’s Cas?”

“He was searching for you.” 

Dean finds Cas on the other side of the wide room and their eyes meet briefly. Dean is reminded of the one high school dance he ever went to. His girlfriend at the time, Cassie - what a coincidence, huh? - had tried to persuade him to dance with her, but Dean had been too cool to give in. He had stood in one corner of the room, judging the other kids for being so sappy and laughed when he caught his best friend Victor slow dance with a girl whose name he has long forgotten. Now he feels like he’s a teenager again, and he suddenly understands why it’s such a big thing for so many people. The thought of the kind of gesture that pops into his head makes his heart race.

He thrusts his glass at Charlie, making up his mind. “I’m heading over to the band.”

Charlie eyes him speculatively. “Go get’em, cowboy,” she smiles and takes a sip from her drink. 

“Wish me luck.”

After a bit of discussion, the band is willing to play one of the songs he named. 

Dean turns to find Cas again. He’s standing at the edge of the dancefloor, stance relaxed, but the look on Cas’ face is curious and Dean can feel his heart jump in his throat when the first notes linger in the air. Dean can see recognition dawning on Cas’ face. 

It’s a bold move, Dean knows that, and it sure as hell is a little bit early for  _ that  _ song, but his options were limited. His palms are sweating when he comes near enough to take Cas’ glass from him to put it on a nearby table. Their fingers brush ever so slightly. The question must be clear on his face. Cas flushes and it’s the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen. After a long moment of consideration, or teasing most likely, in which Dean sees his life flash by, Cas straightens his spine and nods.

The dance floor was almost empty before Dean went over to the band, now the last two couples leave it due to the song. Cas takes Dean’s hands and walks him to the middle of the space before he turns and takes a step forward until their chests are just an inch apart. A warm hand lands on Dean’s right hip and he lifts his right hand without thinking to lace his fingers into Cas’. Their palms fit perfectly against each other. 

“That’s unexpected,” Cas says, voice low and warm like a caress. 

Dean shrugs to cover up his nervousness. “It’s a great song,” he answers weakly. 

Cas smiles his big smile, the one Dean just can’t seem to get enough of. “It is. It has a lot of… potential.” His eyes are dark blue with emotion and Dean feels warm all over, understanding what Cas is saying here. They are on the same page. This is a beginning. 

The lights are twinkling overhead and cast reflections on Cas’ hair. The low murmurs and backdrop of sounds in the room fade away until there’s only the song and the whisper of Cas’ breath against his neck. They don’t really dance, just sway into each other’s personal space, closer and closer, until their cheeks are pressed together and Dean can feel the warmth seep through their clothes.

“ _ I just want to be there when the morning night explodes _ ,” Cas murmurs, not even bothering with the melody, and Dean turns his head to ghost his lips over Cas’ temple, over his cheekbone, just as Cas loosens his left hand and curls it around Dean’s neck.

Cas’ lips are soft and dry as they brush against Dean’s. The slightest taste of champagne still lingers on his breath and mingles with the scent that is pure Cas, new and already so familiar at the same time. Dean puts his free hand on Cas’ chest to feel his heart beating steady under his palm, in time with the slow beat of The Pogues’ most famous ballad. The kiss stays chaste, and in it there’s a confession and a promise.

It feels a lot like coming home.

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

_ Three months later _

The trial against Sandover had been a nasty and tiring business but yesterday Zachariah Adler had finally been convicted and sentenced to two years of jail. After learning just how many dirty deals his former boss had been making, Dean would have put him away for longer, but that’s how the system works and he’s glad that they won the trial at all. The library had been funded with a big check to make up for the harassment over the last years. 

Dean blinks awake in the wide bed and waits for his eyes to adjust to the golden morning light. The room is warming up quickly and he stretches in the long beams of sunlight that pour through the windows. 

He moved in with Cas a month ago. The apartment is nothing more than a wide open space, half of the second story of an old industrial building at the edge of town. The walls are open brick, the floor hardwood, the appliances steel and granite. But it doesn’t feel impersonal like it should. Every surface is adorned with some kind of music paraphernalia, LPs and posters, even a Joey Ramone wobble figure on the counter next to the bed. Dean added some of his own stuff, old and new, and together they turned the space into something homey and unique. 

Cas is out next to him, snoring quietly, lips parted, hair a mess. Dean reaches out to touch his bottom lip and Cas smacks them together wetly. They have the day off, but will go over to the library later for their new project. With the money from the compensation, Dorothy bought ten laptops. Charlie, Cas and Dean will start a program to teach a few kids from the neighborhood the basics of coding and design. 

Dean lets his eyes wander over Cas’ sleeping form. The blanket is tangled somewhere near his hips and gives Dean full view of the intricate designs on Cas’ skin. Most of the images are dark, a reaper with a scythe, an angel with burning wings, a demon with red hair, blood dripping from her manicured hands. Between the images flow swirling patterns, vines and flowers that counteract the sullen imagery. They stand for the lessons learned from loss and pain and grief, Cas once told him, the goodness and the hope that brightens up the darkest of days. 

Cas’ body is a work of art and Dean is only just starting to understand its meaning. He traces one of the lines on Cas’ hip and smiles when the skin under his fingertips jumps. Right next to Cas’ hipbone he finds a new and less permanent addition to Cas’ collection. A wide bruise, sucked there by Dean Winchester on May, 25th, in the year of the Lord 2015. Dean is quite happy with the result. He rubs over the red mark, and feels heat stir low in his belly at the memory of putting it there. 

“What’re you doing?” Cas’ voice is gravel, rough and grumpy. 

Dean smiles at him. “Remembering last night.”

Cas just grunts and closes his eyes again. Now that he’s awake, Dean will not be shut out that easily. He presses his palm flat to Cas’ skin and skims it over his stomach to brush lightly through the dark hair that’s visible over the hem of the blanket. Cas makes a sound between a content sigh and an exasperated grunt, like he can’t make up his mind if he’s offended at being woken early or pleased with the line of Dean’s thinking. Dean stays on track and nudges his fingers under the blanket. Cas’ body is definitely interested in the proceedings. Dean strokes over Cas’ filling erection to take him in hand. 

Cas’ cock is warm and still half soft under his palm, the skin around the base loose. Dean leans over Cas’ body to press kisses along his side and all over his chest. He grins when he can pull a small gasp from Cas when he reaches his right nipple and sucks lightly on it. Cas hand comes up to pat Dean’s back lazily. 

Cas is not a morning person. Dean already knew that from work, but seeing him all grumpy and squinting in the mornings before he had coffee gave a whole new meaning to the concept. It wasn’t easy to persuade Cas to take part in any kind of activity before 9 am. Dean had made it his mission to at least try. So Cas slowly stroking up and down Dean’s back while Dean coaxes Cas’ dick into hardness and nibbles at his budding nipple has to be counted as a win. 

Dean, though, has even more ambitious plans. When Cas is rock hard under his hand and starts to roll his hips into Dean’s fist, Dean deems the moment right to take things one step further. 

He tugs back his hand and ignores Cas’ mumbled protest to search for the bottle of lube he’d tossed to the side the night before. With a small cry of victory, he retrieves it from the gap between the matress and the headboard and sits up to straddle Cas’ thighs. Cas blinks open his left eye and glares at him. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna ride you,” Dean grins, and sighs when his lubed up fingers find his own hole, still loose and slightly slick from the night before. 

Cas’ gaze wanders down Dean’s body to pause at Dean’s erection, thick and flushed between his open thighs. Cas licks his lips before a big jawn splits his face. 

“As long as I don’t have to move, do as you please,” he grunts, but reaches out to thumb at Dean’s slit despite his words. 

“Thank you so much.” Dean is wheezing when he says it. He has three fingers inside himself already and revels in the stretch and burn. Cas is still toying with his dick, not really accomplishing anything other than making Dean’s toes curl with the teasing and stoking the need to get Cas’ cock inside him yesterday. 

He slips his fingers free with a squelching sound, but then brings his index finger back to circle his rim and find himself open and gaping. After all these months, he’s still surprised how much he loves having sex with Cas, who forbids himself to be ashamed of anything that makes him and his partner feel good. Dean learned a lot about himself in this time - for instance that he doesn’t mind getting messy with Cas. In fact he likes it. A lot. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Cas’ eyes are open again and focused on Dean’s face with curious  intent. 

“Very much,” Dean sighs and wipes his hand on the blanket to reach for the condoms. He opens the package and jerks Cas’ cock a few times before he rolls the condom on and sits up on his haunches. 

Cas’ eyes are wide and dark now as he watches Dean lowering himself slowly onto his cock. His stomach muscles are trembling, and Dean can see the strain to lay still in the little tick in his jaw and the way his hands open and close beside his body. Cas isn’t nearly as unaffected as he wants to make it look. Dean feels the big head nudging at his rim and sinks lower until it’s pressing against the muscle. He’s loose, yes, but Cas is still huge and the position makes everything so much more intense. 

Cas bites his bottom lip and sucks it back between his teeth with a hissing sound as Dean finally lowers himself and takes Cas’ length inch by inch. Dean smiles, a bit shaky, when Cas bottoms out and Dean is seated fully. Cas’ eyes are blown nearly black, his jaw tight, but he shoots a smile back and arcs an eyebrow. 

“This all you got?” he asks, but his facade is crumbling and his voice sounds breathless. 

Dean starts to roll his hips, just to enjoy the feeling of fullness and to tease Cas who responds with a delightful low moan he can’t seem to keep in. Dean puts his hands on Cas’ chest, rubs his palms roughly over his nipples before planting them on both pecs to steady himself. The vines and pictures on Cas’ skin twitch under his palms.  

He sits up until Cas’s cock nearly slips free and hovers there until he can see Cas getting impatient. Seconds tick by in a match of wills. Dean can feel his rim stretching taught around the thick head of Cas’ cock. Cas’ hand comes up to grab his hip, but Cas holds still otherwise. 

When Dean’s thighs begin to strain, he gives in and slams his body back down. They both cry out, but Dean doesn’t take time to regroup, sits up and pushes down again and again in a slow but powerful roll of his hips, until his muscles burn and tremble. 

His dick is bouncing with every move, leaking a steady trail of precome onto Cas stomach, drops flying occasionally up to his own chest. 

At last, his thighs give out. He’s not twenty anymore and this position is strenuous even for people in better shape than him. He gets back to rolling his hips, still waiting for Cas to lose his cool for good. 

Cas squints at him. His palm wanders absentmindedly up Dean’s body to tweak his nipple and soothe it over with the side of his hand. The sharp sting makes Dean gasp, so Cas does it again and again, and Dean looks down, dizzy almost, to watch the skin redden around the hard nub. 

He rocks against Cas in lazy circles, and the urgent flare of heat transforms into a constant pressure, building under Cas’ insistent hands and the way Cas’ cock pushes against his sweet spot when Dean angles his hips just right. It’s the best kind of torture. Dean’s body is screaming at him to speed things up and get off, but he draws the moment out, revels in the feeling of being joined with Cas. 

Cas seems to be fully awake now. The hand that doesn’t currently abuse his nipple drops down to Dean’s neglected cock and teases the head with a rough thumb. Dean whimpers. The simple touch sets his nerves on fire. 

“Cas, please,” he rasps and lets his mouth fall open on a groan when Cas does it again.

“Tell me what you want,” Cas says, voice commanding and gravel-deep. 

“Fuck me.” It’s not more than a whisper. Dean still stumbles over the words. 

Cas reaches up to put a come-stained finger under his chin and tilt it up until Dean has to look him in the eye. There’s warmth and mirth and lust in Cas’ deep blue gaze, and Dean can’t fathom how this man can make him feel loved and wanted and furious all at once. Cas is too much sometimes, a thunderstorm of contradictions. Dean’s chest constricts almost painfully when he realizes something profound. 

Cas rubs his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip and asks, “What was that?”

Dean feels tears sting at the corner of his eyes and his throat is tight with emotion while every part of him is tense with the need to come. Cas seems to know that something’s off because he sits up and circles his arms around Dean, brings their mouths together in a tender kiss. Dean holds onto him. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Dean laughs, a little bit hysterical, and hides his head in the crook of Cas’ neck. “Nothing’s wrong. I just had a revelation.”

Cas hums a questioning note and rubs along Dean’s spine. 

“It’s kinda cheesy.” The sun is hot on Dean’s back, but the blush that creeps up his throat is even warmer. 

“I don’t mind cheesy.” 

Dean sits back a bit and grimaces at the wet sound. How very romantic. He captures Cas’ face between his hands and lets his gaze wander over his tousled hair, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the kiss-bitten, shiny full lips. 

“I love you,” he says, steady and simple. 

A grin forms on Cas’ lips, a grin without the smallest trace of sarcasm, but full of happiness. It brightens the room. Dean thinks he might go blind. 

“Yeah?” Cas asks, because of course he does. “That’s convenient.” He presses a quick, almost chaste kiss to Dean’s lips. “Because I love you, too.”

With that, he grabs Dean and lets them both fall to the side before he rolls them over until he’s on top, propped up on his elbows, still smiling that dazzling smile, and Dean sighs when the strain in his thighs lessens, and he wraps his legs around Cas middle. 

“Where were we,” Cas mumbles as he starts rocking slowly into Dean. 

“You… ngh… were about to fuck me senseless.” Dean pants when Cas thrusts deep and perfect inside him. 

“Ah, yes,” Cas muses, his tone betrayed by the concentrated squint of his eyes. He pulls back to slam into Dean, hard. Dean watches, mesmerized, as the images on Cas’ chest dance with every movement of his muscles, as Cas fucks him steady and deep. The pressure that lessened when they had their moment - a freaking love confession in the middle of a morning fuck no less, he thinks, bemused - is back with full force. All thoughts dissipate when Cas slams into him with precision, and the air fills with their moans and gasps, and Dean loses himself in the feeling of being taken apart thoroughly by the man he loves. 

Somewhere in the mindblowing rhythm Cas is building, a hand curls around his dick and starts jerking him in time with the thrusts. Dean tries to keep his focus on Cas, but it wavers and gets blurry with the tears still brimming in the corner of his eyes and the pleasure rising from the soles of his feet to the crown of his hair. His fingertips are tingling and he licks his dry lips. 

Cas is getting close. Dean struggles to focus on the details as he unravels above him, from his heaving chest to the way his hip bones are just visible when he snaps his lower body back to find Dean again. The rhythm falters and Dean lifts his hips to meet Cas, urge him on, feel him deeper, deeper, thickening with his impending release. 

And when Cas curls over him, and sighs Dean’s name and spills hot inside him, Dean tumbles over the edge right behind him, vision whitening out for a second or two. 

Cas skin is warm and slick with sweat under his palms. His body a heavy weight on top of him. Dean is dizzy with satisfaction as they catch their breath together. 

And yeah, it’s a bit uncomfortable and slightly gross and he’s sure Cas will lift his head any second and demand pancakes for his services and overall be an asshole over being awoken so early, but Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. 

It’s better than perfect. 

It’s real. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [procasdeanating](www.procasdeanating.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Come say hi!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [AIDA Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917291) by [exceptcas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exceptcas/pseuds/exceptcas)




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